


My Love,

by fishingclocks



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Cop AU, F/F, Gratuitous Letter-Writing, Historical AU, Language, Paradox, Pining, Pining because Paradox, Temporal Romance, Time Weirdness, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8479357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingclocks/pseuds/fishingclocks
Summary: Inspired by the synopsis of Hallmark’s ‘The Love Letter.’ The year is 1882. Riza Hawkeye heads up Roy Mustang’s campaign for Amestrian Prime Minister, determined to bring peace and order to this country since no one else seems up to the job.It is also 2019. Officer Maria Ross of the Central PD has her hands quite full with neighbors who constantly seem in need of saving, and a life that’s headed nowhere, 50 miles over the speed limit.Their lives don’t change when Maria finds a 100-year-old letter: they change when she decides to write (one) back.





	1. ix; or, i

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for the 2016 Fullmetal Alchemist Fandom Challenge!!

As the train pulls into Central Station, a dull roar seeps from the outside in, carrying with it anticipation and exhilaration.

Riza looks across the car.

The smile that Roy Mustang is wearing is nearly predatory. She sighs, and crosses her ankles.

“Sir,” she says, “I don’t believe the people will quite trust you if you greet them looking like that.”

“Looking like _what_ exactly, Hawkeye?” The vain thing is touching his face, now: running a hand delicately over his hair.

She decides that she will mock him for this later. “Like you’re going to eat them, sir.”

“Ah.” He pauses mid-preen, and looks out a window. An activity Riza has actively been avoiding. The roiling masses waiting outside their door have not let up on their screaming: she doesn’t dare consider how deafening they will be without the safety of a barrier. Particularly when her companion has the talent that he does for putting large groups of people under his thrall. “It’s intoxicating, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t know to quite what he’s referring, but she’s rather certain it isn’t the gin.

“The biggest reception you’ve ever had, sir,” she says in reply. “You’ll do well in the city.”

“I should hope so.” Roy laughs, but he doesn’t sound amused: more enthralled.

Oh dear. He’s going to start waxing poetic soon, isn’t he—

“These are the people that are going to change Amestris, Hawkeye.” Riza is quite accustomed to being right. “We’re going to give that power back to them, you and I.”

Before this can morph into another pro-democratic rant, Riza stands: starts walking toward the door. “Save it for the podium, sir.”

She doesn’t have to look to know that that smile is back.

Oh well. At least she tried.

 

-

Traffic in downtown Central knows no rush hour.

Hot to imply that the streets are empty, or unorganized, or any healthy combination of the two: that’s nothing short of wishful thinking.

No, it’s just that the normal, daytime traffic in Amestris’ largest city, which also happens to be its literal and business capitol, is reliably at levels that could be labeled ‘obscene’.

Add streets, crowded by commuters, politicians, and tourists, plus monumental upward-bound buildings lining said streets on either side for most of the city’s proud 35 square miles, packed with the business that seems to flourish despite notoriously nonexistent domestic parking space, plus sidewalks whose generous size can barely contain all its passers-through, minus the gloriously mild weather of the towns situated just slightly to the north: the mathematical equivalent of life in the Center. Needless to say, the dramatizations don’t quite do Central City justice, in all of its hectic micro-activity while the beast itself moves at a half-pace from its own sheer size.

Officer Maria Ross, a large part of whose job is to patrol Central and get to _intimately_ experience its flaws, will not hesitate to mention this to anyone who so much as vaguely approaches the topic.

Which: not her fault. In high school, her class had made up the title Most Unlikely to Tolerate Injustice’ just so they’d have a superlative to sort her into.

“I agree,” says Brosh, in the present, and safely _far_ away from Maria’s high school years. “You _know_ that I agree, Maria, right?” He’s pleading from the passenger seat, and though she can’t see his expression clearly, because she’s _driving_ , and her eyes are on the road like a _sane_ person’s, by now she instinctively knows the pout of anguished boredom her partner’s probably wearing. Maria feels probably-put-out.

Still, she concedes a small “Yeah,” because it’s most likely true: Brosh is sweet and gullible and would probably agree if she told him that (impetum), bless his soul.

He’s probably now reaching for Maria’s stash of Pringles. She takes one hand off the wheel to flail out in his general direction.

Brosh yelps and retreats.

Maria counts this as a victory.

He continues, nursing his pride and a craving for salty perfection. “You _know_ , then, that I’ve _already_ agreed with you on this. Several times! We need new traffic systems.” Pausing, Brosh sighs. As Maria turns off of Hindenburg onto Streiss, he braces himself on the dashboard: that turn’s just a little steep. “Listen, Maria. I know you’re looking forward to that promotion—“

“ _Possible_ promotion,” Maria corrects, because that crucial detail’s making her mentally cringe.

And physically cringe.

She would _really_ like that promotion.

“Possible promotion, yeah. But you’re _totally_ gonna get it. _My point being_ ,” and here, Brosh pointedly shoves his hand in her direction, like she won’t get that the words are supposed to be emphasized. “My point being, just for now, this can’t be _that_ bad, right? For that one he makes an aborted, sweeping gesture. Would’ve been more effective if he’d added more arc and finish.

Some asshole cuts her off. Maria curses and tightens her hand on the wheel.

“Brosh,” she grits out, around her pure, justified _rage_ , “there are two things in my life right now that make me incredibly, incredibly stressed. If I can minimalize my exposure to just _one_ of those, I’ll be a happy camper.”

Brosh says “You could let _me_ drive.”

Maria says “Not funny, Brosh.”

“Yeah, okay.”

They both know that’s the answer he was hoping for.

 _“Hey Ross ‘n Brosh, you kids still alive?”_ The radio cuts in, unexpectedly.

Maria brakes, abruptly, and gets honked at for her troubles.

Brosh squeaks.

“Aw,” says Maria, taking her eyes away from the windshield to send her partner doe eyes. Her partner sticks his tongue out.

Brosh picks up the radio, coughing, and holds it in the space between the two of them. “Hey, Cheryl,” he responds. “What’ve you got for us?”

 _“Oh nothing,”_ Cheryl says, in a tone that implies it’s _not_ , in fact, nothing. _“Just a 10-61 I thought Ross might wanna take a look at before processing gets to ‘em.”_

The next voice that crackles its way over the radio is certainly _not_ Cheryl’s. _“Hey, Ms. Maria,”_ it says, sheepishly.

“ _Shit_ ,” hisses Maria. “What the _hell_ have you two done now?”

-

The enthusiastic roar of the united hundreds echoes off the granite bones of the city, shaking the ground and giving Riza a goddamn headache.

Roy’s voice carries so much better here. From her place in the crowd, innocuous and carefully watching, she can tell that all of them are soaking in every word, listening raptly to his, admittedly, moving words.

Little do they know, he wrote this on the train.

Under normal circumstances, Riza would be up there with him: on the stage and within just the right distance to ward off possible attackers and overexcited supporters alike. At least the awe of the mob trying to meet your eye dulls their noise just a smidge.

But a look at the stage, at Roy without a podium in front of him, with nothing save the limits of the volume of a human voice between him and all of Amestris, and Riza knows that she was right to give Roy this.

It’s a lucky thing that he has such a talent for memorization, or all of her careful planning and staging may have gone completely to waste.

Roy starts on his final talking point, and just like that a hush falls over the crowd. His voice is low, yet audible, as he compares Amestris and the shedding of military rule to a phoenix of some sort. The civilian to her right looks as though he’s holding back tears of pure, patriotic fury.

From her other side, Maes snorts. “Comparing Amestris under his Prime Ministry to a mythological _fire_ bird? Our boy’s ego knows no bounds.” Despite the words, Maes manages to sound something akin to impressed. To make up for Riza’s lack of presence on stage, Maes has several of his men stationed directly below the stage. She suspects that this _and_ Maes position beside her are more for her own benefit than Roy’s.

Sighing, Riza claps along with the crowd as Roy says something that causes those gathered around her to burst into spontaneous applause. When the noise has died down marginally, enough for any semblance of conversation, she says, “Unfortunately, he didn’t even come up with that. Our new speechwriter Fuery did a few weeks ago: Roy’s been dying to use it ever since. I think the boy’s aiming for Falman’s position.”

“Good luck to him, then.” Maes grins. “Somehow, that almost makes it better. Was he insufferable, afterward?”

“Unbearable,” Riza replies, aggrieved. “He kept _petting_ the gloves for the rest of the afternoon. He offered Fuery some of his lunch.” Looking up at the stage, she watches dark eyes flash: he’s gone off-script, now. She feels a small burst of fondness trickle down her ribs. “The man is more peacock than phoenix.”

The speech draws to a close, and Roy finally begins his descent into the roiling barrage of humanity at his feet. For the first time since the speech started, Riza turns away from the stage and looks at Maes, her mouth set into a firm, worried line.

She asks, “Are your men in place?” almost under her breath. The only thing she gets in response is a reassuring nod.

There is nothing left to do but wait, then, as Roy tries to wade his way toward them, so Maes can direct them to the car. At the rate he’s moving, Roy will reach them by midmorning, election day.

There’s nothing for it. Riza settles in, and waits.

-

“Let me just start by saying,” says Alphonse, trying at sounding level-headed and adorable: and succeeding, but then again Maria is just _not_ in the mood, “that this is _entirely_ Brother’s fault.”

“Hey! Selling me out, you traitor?”

“I endeavor to always tell the truth—”

“You’re a dirty _liar_ —“

“ _Enough_ , boys.”

Finally: silence.

Maria didn’t yell, _hopes_ she didn’t yell. But she’s feeling very strict, so she guesses she doesn’t care either way.

“Sorry, Ms. Maria,” Al says, sheepishly.

She contemplates turning this into what her parents would have called a ‘learning opportunity’. If it hadn’t been Cheryl calling the shots today, if Maria hadn’t been good friends with and complained to her about the two of them _constantly_ , their actions today could have had serious repercussions.

Ever since the Elric brothers had moved into the apartment next to hers, she’d had them under her wing. Hell, they’d met when Ed was feverish, recovering from automail surgery and nearly collapsing outside her door.

But they aren’t kids. And they certainly aren’t _hers_.

She lets it drop. Shrugs, laughs, and moves over to the counter. “Do you boys know what day it is?”

“Um…” Ed looks up, his arms uncrossing. “Maybe… Friday?”

“And why _exactly_ are you not making nachos?”


	2. iiiv; or, ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It wasn’t there, though,” Al interrupts. “We thought it might have been some rich person messing around, but it kept getting bigger as we went.”
> 
> Maria leaned forward onto the counter, humming. The boys had been headed East down Haverty: if they’d kept heading that way, they would have ended up at—
> 
> “You think it’s at the museum?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two!! sorry for the delay, updates should be much quicker now!!! <3

When Maria wakes up the next morning, she’s pulled out of a strange, strange dream. She actually doesn’t mind, honestly: there’d been something unsettling about that chef…

What she _does_ mind is that she does not, in fact, wake up, because that would imply conscious personal action. Maria is _woken up_ : passive tense, no personal choice whatsoever, thank you very much.

On a Saturday.

On a Saturday _off_.

Maria is fit for murder.

“Fuck,” she says, to herself, laying on her back, tense and listening for the sound that woke her up. When it doesn’t come again, she starts to think she dreamed it up. It wouldn’t be the _first_ time— _shit_ there it is: muffled voices from the other room, clearly _trying_ to be quiet, but she’s only been awake for one agonizing minute now and Maria doesn’t care very much about ‘trying,’ accompanied by a sharp metal _clang_.

She closes her eyes.

It takes her fourteen minutes more to convince herself to actually open them again.

Another seven to get out of bed.

When Maria opens her bedroom door, she sighs. “Good morning, boys.”

Al looks up from… whatever it is the two of them’ve spread out all over her counter, and grins, sunny as always, even at terrible, early hours of the morning, on the weekend. “Good morning, Ms. Maria!” he says. “I hope _Brother_ didn’t wake you.”

That earns a grunt from said brother, but not much else. His face is currently buried in a mug of steaming coffee.

Maria says “Well, all that matters is that I’m up, now. What’re you working on?”

“We totally woke her up,” mumbles Ed.

“ _You’re_ the one who decided to petty and drop the wrench, Brother. It isn’t even that early. We might be late as it is.”

“Late?” prompts Maria, in hopes of staving off whatever impending sibling argument lingers in the near-future, by the way the only distinguishable features on Ed’s face twist up like he’s about to retort.

Al hums, moving back to tinkering, and Ed picks up the conversation in his wake. “Yeah, remember that thing yesterday?”

“The ‘nearly arrested for trespassing’ thing?” says Maria.

Ed nods. “Yeah, that thing. So, that shit over there traces alchemical energy, and yesterday while we were up in Stuffyville it just started _spiking_.”

“It wasn’t _there_ , though,” Al interrupts. “We thought it might have been some rich person messing around, but it kept getting bigger as we went.”

Maria leaned forward onto the counter, humming. The boys had been headed East down Haverty: if they’d kept heading that way, they would have ended up at—

“You think it’s at the museum?”

Both boys beam, and it’s _really_ too early for this.

“Why would you be getting _alchemy signals_ from the museum?”

Ed’s nose scrunches and he mutters “ _Alchemy signals_?” Al says “There could be a variety of explanations, really. Maybe a powerful alchemist tried to steal something? Maybe one of the artifacts is inherently alchemical in nature? Maybe—“

“You’re saying you don’t know.”

Al deflates a little. “Well, yeah. But if we find what’s giving these massive readings, the data could be essential.”

“ _Essential_ ,” says Ed, nodding his head and trying very hard to match his brother’s level of innocence. Maria appreciates the thought at least.

Her head hangs low over the counter, and Maria sighs out “ _Fine_. When’re we leaving?” even though they haven’t even asked her to come yet.

Al’s voice has every trace of that trademarked terrifying grin. “Eh, now?”

Maria lets her head fall to the counter with a groan.

-

“There’s an open slot in the Central Sun,” Riza says, flipping through proposals that all say the same thing. She won’t ever say it aloud, but Roy is, at the moment, a hot commodity in the press—God only knows what that would do to his ego.

Roy huffs and leans back in his overly-plush leather chair, bringing a hand to his mouth. “I’ve already run an interview with the Sun this year: tell them I’m not interested.”

As a sign of goodwill, Parliament had extended Roy the use of one of the most overtly lavish offices at their disposal; Riza had practically been able to hear the terrified MP who’d been leashed with the job of messenger shaking with a need to please. Not to say that Riza isn’t thankful for the, frankly, _sinfully_ comfortable couch she is currently lounging on; it’s the fact that she has to work _on the couch_. Was it really so hard to provide two desks?

Still, it was either this, or have _Roy_ work from the couch, and she’d never get _anything_ useful out of him that way. Sacrifices had to be made.

From her _comfortable_ position, Riza raises an eyebrow. “That article ran before you had even announced your campaign, Roy. I’m penciling them in.”

Again, Roy huffs.

To make up for the ‘inconvenience’, Riza—with effort—stands, walks over, and plops into a lavender armchair situated not far from the desk. The shade horribly clashes with the room’s green walls. Riza has decided that the interior decorators in Parliament must all be colorblind.

Roy is looking over a largely irrelevant business card with apparent concentration, and, after a minute or two, says “I hear you’re going to stay at the manor while we’re in Central.”

Stiffening, Riza’s eyes narrow. She takes a cue from him, and pretends to be studying a letter from PM Miller, detailing how _delighted_ he is that Mr. Mustang had decided to take up residence in Parliament’s visitor accommodations for the duration of his stay. Funny how she hadn’t been extended the same depth of consideration.

“I lived there for nearly two decades, sir—I think I can handle a few months.”

And then he’s looking at her, with those eyes that say he understands, but doesn’t, because Riza has been to his home, and felt the warmth and _life_ there—

“Riza, you know I could just reserve a room for you at Grisham Palace. Not one person would blame you for it.”

Her jaw makes a terrible grating noise as it tenses. “I can handle my personal affairs just fine, thank you sir. I’ll be writing PM Miller a thank-you note for his consideration, if you need me.” Riza takes her proposals and walks stiffly from the room—she can feel the weight of Roy’s concerned gaze on her all the way out.

-

The Central City Historical Museum stands in the middle of the downtown housing district, at the end of illustrious Haverty Road. Because of this, the museum, both inside and out, is silent as the grave: traffic year-round is kept low due to an inconvenient location and smarmy ‘concerned citizens’ whose houses coincidentally tend to be right down the lane.

There’s several stories about Central Historical, most of them boiling down to spiteful urban legend, but Maria’s got a few favorites. Like the one about the wealthy museum donors, unhappy the city’s growth was shifting away from their glorious manors whose sole purposes were to be gazed at in lust—so they demanded the museum set up shop right in the middle of their community, or they’d cut the funding. Or the one about the political figure back in the Golden Age who said “Screw it,” moved out, and donated the building to charity.

Not that Maria _believes_ any of them; she just thinks it’s another example of Central’s poor city planning.

In any case, the building is terrifyingly extravagant. The only people who frequent the establishment now are either upper-crust academics or the rich assholes who live a couple doors down—and it’s evident. The aura of stale, century-old perfume and the word ‘elite’ is rank throughout Corinthian columns and mauve marble halls. The place doesn’t even _look_ like a museum.

If Maria weren’t so conscious of the damn echo in this place, she’d whine about it.

As it is, the Elrics have abandoned her—left as soon as she found a parking space, after shoving one of their _machines_ into her hands and saying “Call us if it dings!” Or something of that nature; it’d come out as more of an excited blur of what might have once been human speech. Not only does Maria not know a whit of alchemy besides the “Equivalent exchange!” spiel every kid gets taught in school, but, despite their years of acquaintance, she’s not exactly fluent in their brand of excited science babble.

She’s just wandering the museum aimlessly, now; alone, with only her keys and the machine-thing, should she actually run into whatever she’s looking for.

Looking down at the ‘L-shaped’ gadget in her hands, Maria begrudgingly decides it’s actually kind of cute—every few seconds, it lets out a quiet little whir, like a tiny fan can’t decide whether to turn on or off, and multicolored lights are dully flashing in a pattern that Maria can’t help but memorize.

When asked if the thing was dangerous, all she’d gotten was a half-shrug and one of Al’s smiles that try for the emotion ‘apologetic’, but everyone knows Elric’s can’t feel such a thing, so she just end up feeling laughed-at.

Somehow, Maria seems to have followed the vague pulsating lights and indecisive fan to the section dedicated to old Golden Age memorabilia. In the center of the room is a scene with wax dolls, which are probably supposed to be Roy Mustang and his ilk.

Maria humphs.

A strange, clicking noise starts to fill the gallery. If Maria weren’t so accustomed to the sound of fancy asshole-shoes, she might have checked her machine for dings.

She looks around, and sure enough, a balding man who can’t be older than thirty is stalking her way.

Maria is, instantly, _acutely_ aware of how bad this looks: she is alone, in a hall surrounded by artifacts from Amestris’ pride and joy, holding a pulsating, hypothetically dinging device that could _definitely_ explode if she tried hard enough.

Maria decides that her best option is to flee.

Weaving through complex displays on alchemical progression and education and self-congratulating newspaper clippings on “Ishvalan Rights!” Maria makes her escape. The indignant shout of offended academic doesn’t trail after her, so Maria assumes that she’s gotten off clean.

The room that Maria emerges in is much, _much_ less threatening.

“The Adornments of Historical Central City,” a proud placard says.

After a quick once-over, Maria says “Old Furniture.”

-

There are many things troubling Riza about sleeping in her childhood home.

Gaping spaces where memories of family should sit, guilt that had chased her all the way to a blue uniform and Ishvalan sand lingers in every crevice, ready to leap out at the slightest hint of weakness.

The stench of dust and stale air hand low, despite the well-paid housekeeper.

However, the thing that burrows under Riza’s skin the most is the silence. The mansion is dank, dark, and lonely, and she knows that every night spent here with be a test of her will—a noisy, premiere hotel is only a few telephone-calls away. _Not one person would blame you for it._

Except Riza stands in the atrium, a stranger in the house she grew up in, and doesn’t want to let it _beat her_. If she leaves, this damn place wins. And Riza is not so grown-up that she can bow to that so easily.

Riza hand flies to the holster at her hip as something rattles upstairs—low and long and increasing in volume.

So much for silence.

It should probably bother her that Riza feels calmer now, with a gun in her hand and a possible intruder in her ‘home’ than she did just standing there—she’s climbing up the staircase, and heading down the hall, towards the source of the strange sound.

From underneath a door at the end of the left-hand hallway emanates a low, blue glow.

As she comes to the door, Riza lets out a quiet gasp of recognition.

The intruder was in her grandfather’s study.

**Author's Note:**

> <3


End file.
